Jackson Stiles, Road to Redemption (Road to Redemption #1)(29)
The kid is mum after that. Until he sees the cat.
“This is Frodo. Don’t go in for a scratch too fast. He hates needy.”
“Gotcha. Hey there, big guy.” He indeed goes in for the scratch and almost loses an eye. I give him the old did you not f*cking hear what I just said look and he backs off, keeping a close watch on Frodo the whole time.
“Okay, look.” I point down the hall. “There’s the toilet. There’re leftovers in the fridge somewhere. Don’t f*cking touch anything other than food.” I need a goddamn shower. And a shot of something hard.
X X X
After I’ve washed the day away and I’m beelining it for a shot of Patron with a Stella chaser, I realize what an idiot I am. You never tell a kid not to touch anything. It’s the one surefire way to get them to touch every-f*cking-thing.
“Dude. You know Wii is for kids, right?” Stix is buried in games. He’s got a nunchaku in one hand and a controller in the other.
He found my emergency stash, otherwise known as the nephew entertainment system. So, yeah, of course it’s for kids. He doesn’t need to know my business, though.
Sitting on the back of the couch, watching him in earnest, is the f*cking cat.
“Some watchdog you are.” Frodo mews at me and flicks his tail as if to say, whatever dumbass, you’re the one who left him in charge. And he’s right. Who gives some punk off the street access to their home, then leaves them to their own devices?
Me. That’s who.
“YES! Got him!” Stix lets the Wii remote drop to the floor then throws his hands up into the air in victory.
I should have taken the necessary precautions to ensure the kid wouldn’t get into anything he shouldn’t be getting into.
I’m the idiot here.
Only, I’m not. Because I did take the f*cking precautions. The same ones I take every other goddamn day.
“How’d you get into my closet, Jimmy?” The one with the lock on it. The one I always keep locked.
“Oh. That reminds me.” He pulls out of his pocket a contraption that suspiciously looks like it used to be my door knob. “You really should upgrade your locks. That stuff you’ve got on your doors is at least fifteen years old.”
“You’re fifteen years old.” Little shit.
“Seventeen.”
Smartass.
I pick up an empty diet Dr. Pepper can on my way to the hall closet.
“Use a f*cking coaster next time.” I wipe the sweat from his drink off the table with my sleeve and toss the can, free throw style, into the recycle bin before grabbing a pillow and blanket for the kid.
He mumbles an apology.
“And lights out in T-minus thirty minutes.” I mighta said sixty had he not put a water ring on my coffee table. Or broke my goddamn door.
“Come on, really?”
The bedding I pull out of the hall closet hits the couch like a three-pointer lands the net.
Swish, motherf*cker.
“I’m finding you a place to stay tomorrow until we can get you outta Dodge.”
“But-”
“End of story, kid. I have shit to do. I can’t be distracted with your pubescent-like tendencies at all hours of the goddamn night.” His shoes look like they’ve been kicked off mid-stride. I amend that problem immediately and set them side by side at the door.
“And why in the hell haven’t you changed into something dry, yet?” I grab the bag of clothes I brought in and throw it to him. “There’s what might be construed as PJs in there.” He opens it up and starts rummaging through it. “Otherwise known as sweats.”
He pulls out the jeans I purchased and gives them a pointedly disgusted look.
“What are these?”
“Isn’t that what all the kids are wearing these days?”
His face scrunches up.
“What?”
He drops the jeans that the saleslady specifically f*cking told me was a hot ticket item this year.
I should have known.
Skinny-legged kids don’t actually want their legs to be seen as skinny.
“It’s gonna have to suffice for now.”
Or at least until tomorrow.
It has to.
As Stix continues to judge every item I bought him, I grab the laptop, the mouse, some folders, and a certain bottle of alcoholic beverage I need before heading to the bedroom. I turn the lights out as I go, hearing Stix huff and puff and curse my name all the while.
Poor kid. I’m the least of his problems.
X X X
Angry, empty eyes jolt me out of a deep sleep. It’s the first time in weeks I’ve woken up in my bed, and as a strange added twist, I kinda miss seeing the old hand-drawn superhero hanging on my wall, first thing.
Morning, Mikey.
The fact that the side of my face is stuck to my laptop keyboard tells me I dozed off in the middle of searching for articles relating to Donnie Leary’s death, and henceforth, relatives that might be looking for his brother. The blinding light that’s sneaking in through the window suggests it’s morning.
I check the time.
And I’m f*cking late. Again.
“Shit.”
Kill me now.
No time to figure out where to put the kid. I completely f*cking forgot about the court required appointment that awaits me halfway across Redemption.